


A Perfect Blend

by MintSauce



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Noel's damn mohawk!, based off the picture he tweeted of him and his mohawk!, future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSauce/pseuds/MintSauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But this Mickey standing in front of him isn’t just blonde, his hair is shaved short at the sides and the gelled up mess of a style Mickey had always claimed before had been replaced by a short sort of Mohawk. The Mohawk!Mickey fic you all know you wanted deep down!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Blend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchandrepair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchandrepair/gifts).



> This was supposed to be up yesterday but.......well I fell asleep. And she's already read it, but this is for Billie for her birthday :) which may or may not have been yesterday. Shush!

**Inspired by the picture on Tumblr I saw of Noel Fisher and his goddamn Mohawk standing in front of some artwork.**

Ian almost walks straight past him, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed for that one.

After all, for one, they’re in a goddamn museum that even he doesn’t want to be in and secondly, the Mickey he’s seeing in front of him doesn’t look anything like the one he used to know.

Sure, Ian knew Mickey was actually blonde. He’d known ever since Mickey let it slip when he was drunk as fuck about dying his hair all the time getting annoying. And honestly, Ian had always wondered why the curtains hadn’t completely matched the drapes so to speak.

But this Mickey standing in front of him isn’t just blonde, his hair is shaved short at the sides and the gelled up mess of a style Mickey had always claimed before had been replaced by a short sort of Mohawk.

And it worked, it worked really stupidly well.

He didn’t know if it was because Mickey was clean, or if it was because he’d bulked up enough that he filled the security guard’s uniform he was wearing perfectly. Either way Ian’s fingers twitched down at his sides with the need to touch Mickey, to run his fingers through the cropped sides of his hair.

He wondered if it felt like his did when he’d shaved it off, or would it be softer? Mickey’s hair had always been soft without the gel, he’d put money on it being soft.

He wouldn’t even have really recognised him as being none other than Mickey Milkovich if it hadn’t been for the tattoos on his knuckles that he caught sight of as Mickey raised a hand to scratch at his cheek. And the bored as fuck expression on his face was a little telling too.

“Gallagher, come on.”

One of his army buddies shoved him lightly in the back and Ian startled, shooting out a hand to catch himself and tipping forwards a little when it met nothing but air. When he looked back up, Mickey’s eyes had snapped to his and they were so wide and blue, impossibly bright under the lighting of the museum and Ian’s breath stuttered in his chest.

Mickey took a step forwards, looking unsure and Ian almost wanted to laugh at the graffiti-style artwork behind him, but all that came out was a choked off sort of wheeze that wasn’t really a sound at all. He couldn’t stop looking at Mickey’s face, at his hair, at everything.

Secretly, he’d always hoped like maybe time would have been horrible to Mickey, like maybe leaving would have fucked him up in ways that nobody could have comprehended. But no, this was better. Seeing him here like this, looking so good, it was definitely better.

It was better because there’d been so many years between them, so much time to let old wounds heal up and scab over until all it really came down to was the curve of Mickey’s mouth that was half-smile and half-smirk as he took another step closer to Ian and then another.

Ian straightened up, grinning lazily and he felt like his first words should be meaningful somehow, that they should start them off on a better footing than they ever had done before. Maybe then they could have some sort of better chance; because Ian could already see it all playing out before him.

As a perfect blend of old and new.

Tattooed knuckles and blonde hair; cheap shampoo and neatly gelled Mohawks; dirty smirks and honest jobs.

It all seemed so strange and yet it all seemed to make perfect sense.

“Nice hair,” was what came out in place of anything smoother, but Mickey just tipped his head back and laughed, his hair remaining perfectly in place and Ian wanted to run his fingers through it, wanted to find out what it looked like in the morning, when Mickey had just woken up. He wanted to know what it looked like when he’d gotten out of the shower, with water dripping down his chest and a towel hanging teasingly low on his hips.

He wanted to know it all, he wanted to know everything.

“Fuck off, G.I.Joe,” Mickey snorted at him, “Nice boots.”

And of course, Ian still looked down even though he knew he was just wearing Converse.

Mickey laughed again at his slip-up, at his gullibility and when he took a step closer, Ian breathed in and Mickey still smelt like cigarette smoke and cheap deodorant. The scar under his eye was still there and the one under his jaw that Mickey had told him were from trying to teach Mandy to ride a bike; how the hell that worked, Ian had never found out.

“I’m serious,” Ian told him, wanting to press closer to Mickey, wanting to grab him and drag him in by his belt-loops and kiss that smirk right off Mickey’s face, “Always knew you’d look better blonde.”

Mickey snorted and from the way his hands twitched at his sides, Ian thought maybe he wanted to do exactly the same thing. “I know,” Mickey replied, lips twisting into a much realer smile, one of the ones he’d only ever given Ian in private or when he thought Ian wasn’t looking.

“I get off in ten,” Mickey told him then, when the silence stretched on for just a beat too long between them, both of them seemingly unable to look away even to blink, like the other would just vanish if they did, like some kind of perfectly messed up dream, “You can buy me some dodgy ass cafeteria food or whatever.”

Ian chuckled, because really, it was always going to be the same old Mickey when it came down to it. He didn’t find himself arguing though, just grinned as Mickey turned around to get back into position against his wall or whatever, barking at some little kid that the sign said no touching the paintings, so that meant no touching the damn paintings!

Ian just stared at the short hairs on the back of Mickey’s neck and thought about sucking up a hickey there maybe, where Mickey couldn’t hide it. And with that thought, he let his friends shove him through into the other room, all of them laughing at the apparently, ‘ _fucking love-struck_ ’ expression written all over his face.


End file.
